Hell is a Relative Term
by AliceInSomewhereland
Summary: Eponine is one of the few who stand between humanity and hell, sworn to fight evil and protect the helpless, even if it costs her her own life. Vampire slayer!Eponine. e/e. Rated for language/content
1. Part i

Ok guys, here we go with fic #2 for the Fic War on tumblr!

This one was a prompt from tumblr user poeticbibliophile: "Modern AU prompt? One line for you, m'amie — 'Are you afraid of the good you can do?' from Les Miz, V. Hugo. Tag me if you chose this. TY!"

So even though this quote has nothing to do with either of these characters, idk how to write jvj-centric fics. Plus the barricade boys (and obviously enjonine) are just so much fun. So here have more enjonine. Very, very cracky enjonine. (oops)

Honestly, idek where this stuff comes from.

**Disclaimer: **Hugo is probably rolling in his grave thanks to this.

* * *

_What if I told you the stories were true?_

_What if you knew that there really are things that go bump in the night? Things that live under your bed and in your closet just as much as they live in your mind, things that stalk you in the dark and prey on your terror? That all the monsters your parents ever promised you were pretend exist? That sometimes, people die, evil wins, and that the light cannot always banish your fears?_

* * *

The world was hell.

There was no other way to put it.

No one really knew why these creatures existed, but they did. They ruled the night, mauling and feasting and terrorizing the population all the world over. It had always been this way; God had long ago forsaken the world and its inhabitants. Hell had swallowed Earth, and its demons walked with sorry humanity.

But there were people to fight it. Men and women, chosen for their strength, their character, their skill. They were given tasks, they learned the weaknesses of the different creatures, and eventually specialized in one specific type of Hellbeast.

* * *

"Eponine!" a voice shouted.

A young woman, olive-skinned, brown-eyed and dark-haired, stopped short, closing her eyes in trepidation before slowly turning.

"I've been looking for you everywhere," the man said sternly. He was middle-aged, with a close-cropped, graying haircut and a beard that matched. "I want you to patrol tonight."

The girl, Eponine, clenched her jaw. "I promised my brother I would be home tonight. _He_ needs me. You have Musichetta, send her instead."

"Don't question me," he scolded. "I'm sending you."

When Eponine opened her mouth to protest, the man cut her off. "You are a vampire slayer, Jondrette. This is your _job_. This is your duty. You were chosen to protect the people of the world, and _you will patrol tonight_."

"One of those people I have to protect is my brother, Javert," she snapped. She loved the man, but he so frequently forgot that she was one of the rare slayers who had people at home to take care of. She had yet to lose everything, and she planned on keeping it that way. "I have a duty to him, too. And I promised him I would be there tonight. Send Musichetta instead."

Without waiting for his response, Eponine turned on her heal. She knew that Javert would probably punish her later for her insubordination, but she didn't care. Gavroche needed her.

* * *

Eponine was a vampire slayer. One of few slayers, in fact. Most of the women who became slayers died young.

It was not a fate she coveted.

In fact, she hated everything this life. But she had been _chosen_, as Javert constantly reminded her, by a power bigger than herself. And since he was her Guardian – the Guardian of _all_ the slayers in this quadrant – and essentially her boss, it was he she answered to.

She was on the train, headed home to her brother. The dark world rushed by her, and she wondered how many vampires were out and active tonight.

She hated them with a burning passion. When they Turned, they kept their souls, but the bloodlust was so intense that they rarely heeded what little remained of their consciences. Eventually, most lost themselves in the Hunger or went insane from the guilt of what they did when their urges were unbearable. Most that she had met, however, loved killing. She had yet to meet a truly guilty vampire.

True to legend, they could not be in sunlight, and a stake to the heart or a clean swipe of the head from the shoulders would kill them immediately. Crosses, churches, hallowed ground – all unbearable to them. They couldn't even speak the name of God; that's how damned they were. They were vicious, evil creatures, and she wanted nothing more than to kill them _all_.

She hated being a killer, but she loved the fight, loved the moment when they lost. She would watch them victoriously, almost arrogantly, as they died in front of her. It gave her a rush, and afterwards, she would run through the streets, high on adrenaline, hungry and horny and _happy_.

She would find Montparnasse when she could, but otherwise she would grab a burger and indulge at least _one_ of her urges until the high wore off and the real world crashed down on her again.

* * *

Several weeks later found Eponine back on patrol and deep in the throes of combat with a vampire. She could almost taste her victory when she _felt_, rather than saw, the presence of more of the loathsome bloodsuckers.

Panic bubbled up in her; she faltered and was knocked to the ground. She could feel blood trickling down from her brow, and her opponent, standing above her now, bared his teeth menacingly. She was surrounded

"Good job, little 'un," a grating woman's voice cooed.

Eponine felt her insides go cold. From her place on the ground, she stared up into the eyes of her mother.

She had hated her parents when they were alive, and had not been surprised when the police showed up one night, delivering the news of their deaths. She was, however, surprised when she saw them months later, their faces twisted as they sucked a woman dry.

But that was years ago, well before she was a slayer.

"Hello little Eponine," the creature that was once her mother sang.

Eponine pounced, fighting like a madwoman. But she was outnumbered; she only managed to slay the original vampire she was battling before she was repeatedly beat down… by her mother _and_ her father and the rest of their gang.

Her father wrenched her head back by her hair, exposing her neck. _This is it,_ she thought, fighting against those who were pinning her to the ground. _I'm about to become another dead slayer_.

The vampire broke her skin with his teeth, followed on the other side by her mother, and Eponine heard herself cry out. It all seemed to be happening from somewhere else; she knew and understood that she was dying, but she couldn't feel it, barely noticed it. Heaviness spread through her body, and her eyes began to get heavy.

Just before they closed, she became aware of a movement to her left. Her mother was ripped away from her neck.

Then everything went black.

* * *

When Eponine woke, she felt like she had been out drinking all night. Her body was heavy, her head was _pounding_, and she felt sick.

When her eyes adjusted to the daylight seeping in through a crack in the curtains, she looked around – turning her head slowly so as to prevent the exaggeration of her nausea and headache.

The room was simple, bare. There was some framed art on the gray walls, though her eyes were too weak to make out the pictures. A small flatscreen TV was on a small bookshelf that was packed with more books than DVDs, and even more books were piled on the dresser near the bed, as well as on the nightstand next to her. Those, she could make out: _The World According to Garp, _an anthology of the works of Sartre, _Catch-22_.

The bedspread was red, the sheets were white. Thick, black curtains were pulled together, though a ray of bright sunlight streamed through a crack.

_Where was she?_

Eponine wasn't sure how much time had passed, but she was several pages into _The World According to Garp_ (whoever lived here had great taste in literature – this was one of her favorite books) before a gentle knock rapped on the door and it opened.

A man stepped in. Tall, curly blonde hair, casually dressed in dark jeans, a white v-neck t-shirt (that gave her a peek of just a little hair on his chest below a defined collarbone), and a black jacket. He was like a marble statue come to life. His eyes, she noticed, were impossibly blue, and his face was achingly handsome. A small bit of stubble covered his jaw and the top of his neck. She had _no_ idea whatsoever who he was.

"How are you feeling?" the man asked. Eponine, in spite of herself and the weirdness of the situation, found that she liked his voice.

Instead of answering – Eponine hated answering direct questions, especially when she didn't know the inquirer – she countered, "Who the _hell_ are you, and how did I get here?"

The man perched himself on the edge of the bed, purposefully staying as far from her as he could. Still, he smirked at her. "I saved your life last night, Slayer. You were outnumbered by the Thénardier Coven, and they would have killed you."

Eponine glared at him. "They took me by surprise," she grumbled. Then, "How did you know I'm a slayer?"

The man snorted. "You slayers wear your rank like a badge of honor. It's impossible _not_ to know."

Eponine actually felt a little affronted, even though he had answered the question lightly.

He shrugged, apparently aware of the insult, and added, "Plus I was watching you."

"What?" she asked, dumfounded and staring at him.

The man grinned again. "I was following the Thénardier Coven, and so were you. You fell for their bait, you know. They were planning to ambush you. You should be more careful," he admonished.

Eponine raised her chin indignantly, but said nothing.

"Yeah, you would've died if it weren't for me," he continued.

He was actually _fishing for a thank you._ She couldn't believe it.

"Slayers are only women," she pointed out, ignoring his comment.

He ignored hers as well. "You're sleeping in my bed, you know. I saved your life, brought you back here at my own personal risk, nursed your wounds. A 'thank you' wouldn't be unwelcome," he said pointedly. It angered her that he seemed to find all of this so humorous.

She sniffed, realizing that he wouldn't talk about anything else unless she voiced her gratitude. "_Thank you_," she said tightly.

He smiled. Dear _god_ that was a beautiful smile. "Why, you're _welcome_," he deadpanned.

"Now, who are you? Where am I?" she asked impatiently.

The man frowned. "You may stay as long as you need. At least, until you are well enough to make it home. Get some rest, and I'll bring you some food. You need your strength," he said, ignoring her questions. He stood, reaching the door in two short strides.

"Why won't you answer me?" she asked, before he could take his leave.

He stopped, hand on the doorknob, the door partially open. Then he shrugged, turning back towards her and seriously replying, "This is the last time you'll ever see me, so it doesn't matter." Then he was gone.

* * *

Montparnasse was a vampire.

What was worse, he now belonged to the Thénardier Coven. They were the most violent of the covens in this part of the world, and the most deadly. But also one of the biggest.

Javert had lost many a slayer trying to eradicate their ranks, their power.

Eponine was determined not to become one of them. _Especially_ since she was the human daughter of the clan leaders.

But Montparnasse had been her last friend from her old life. He was in love with her, as a human, but he knew she was uninterested in him, even before she had become a slayer. Still, he had let her use him (not that he didn't console himself with some on the side, anyway – he was no virtuous man).

She felt guilty about how she had treated him now, though. He hadn't deserved to be used for sex. He was a good looking guy, and could've found someone who might have loved him back, even if he had some issues with alcohol and was kind of a klepto.

Eponine found that she was crying as she drove the stake into his heart. She hadn't noticed during their fight, as she was far too entranced by their dance to the death. But she would not lose.

_"I'm sorry,"_ she whispered to him as he died.

This time, she felt neither hungry nor happy, and _definitely_ was not horny.

It was Montparnasse that she had gone to for that reason. And here she was, responsible for his death, in _so_ many more ways than just this one.

When she looked up, tears flowing freely from her eyes, she thought she saw a flash of blue eyes and blonde hair disappearing into the shadows, but she couldn't be sure.

* * *

Marius, Azelma, and Gavroche were the only good things in her life anymore.

She had met Marius not long after becoming a slayer, and had fallen in love with him almost immediately. Sometimes when she had gone to Montparnasse, it was because she wanted _Marius_, and she could close her eyes with the other man and pretend that he loved her too.

The thought caused a wave of guilt to flow through her body. The hurt of Montparnasse's death (by her hand) was still very close.

Marius was kind to her, though. He was a sweetheart, always stopping to chat and inquire after her and her sister and brother, always ensuring that she was uninjured and being safe on her patrols.

She hoped that he might someday fall for her too. Eponine felt less damaged and depressed and hopeless around him. Perhaps he would even be willing to put up with the uncertainty of her life, her future, for a few passionate years by her side.

But one evening he ran up to her, more excited and worked up than she had ever before seen him.

"'Ponine! Oh, 'Ponine, I've fallen in love," he told her dreamily, taking her hands in his and spinning her gaily.

For a fleeting moment, Eponine thought her meant her.

"She's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. Her hair is long and _so_ blonde, her eyes are beautiful, and my _god_ she probably has a wonderful soul to match."

Eponine gave him a strained smile.

"Can you find her for me, 'Ponine? You know your way around, and you're good at finding people."

Before she could stop herself, Eponine heard herself agreeing to help him.

* * *

She found the blonde beauty, all right.

Her name was Cosette.

She was the daughter of Jean Valjean.

Jean Valjean was the patriarch of the Fauchelevent Coven.

That _idiot_ Marius had gone and fallen for a vampire.

Jealousy and contempt bubbled up inside of Eponine. She didn't know what to do with herself. Or with Marius. And when she had told him what she had learned, he had dismissed it.

"Not _all_ vampires are bad, 'Ponine," he insisted. Eponine wanted to punch him for his stupidity. He might as well have been suggesting that he take a leisurely swim in the ocean in the middle of a hurricane. "She's a good one, I just know it. Besides, the Fauchelevent Coven has always been fairly peaceful. They don't attack humans, not like the Thénardier Coven or the Tholomyes Coven or the others."

Eponine stormed out, going on a hunt.

She _would_ kill something tonight. She could only hope that it was a vampire, not that idiot, love struck boy she had left in the bar.

A few hours later, Eponine was on her _third_ kill (she had been on the offensive tonight, though it wasn't strictly protocol to hunt alone and without a secure plan that Javert knew).

That's when she saw him.

When the vampire woman was dead, Eponine spun on her heal, flicking her sweaty hair out of her eyes.

"Why are you following me?" she demanded.

The blonde man regarded her seriously. "You seem angrier tonight than usual."

Her eyes narrowed. "Are you _stalking_ me?"

He gave this some consideration, before replying, "More like ensuring that you don't get yourself into any sticky situations again."

She took an involuntary step closer. His eyes were _so_ blue. "Why?"

He shrugged. "You're not like the other slayers."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

He thought for a moment. "They're all driven by something. You just go through the motions, but you're _so_ talented. What's keeping you from rising to your full potential? You could be the best slayer alive, if you wanted. You could eradicate the entire Bloodluster population if only you tried."

Eponine regarded him incredulously. "I don't even _know_ you, I'm not talking to you about my reasons for slaying!"

He was watching her closely, looking for something in his face. "Are you afraid of the good you can do?"

Her face darkened. "Look, _bro_, my reasons for slaying are my own, and are certainly none of your business. And, I will have you know, I'm not afraid of _anything_."

"Whatever you say," he scoffed.

Eponine shoved him back angrily; he grinned, lazily taking a step back to keep his balance. It only pissed her off more.

"You're intriguing, little slayer," he said, quirking a half-smile at her.

Without missing a beat, she replied, "And you're an annoying jackass, mystery asshole."

He laughed at that.

* * *

Eponine still did not know his name, but she began to enjoy his somewhat constant presence when she patrolled. Somehow, he always seemed to pop up in time to see her fight, and ended up staying with her until her patrol was finished just before dawn. Then they would go their separate ways.

_"Don't you ever sleep?" she asked as they walked slowly together through the empty streets. No one was ever out at this time of night except for the slayers or the occasional other fighter. She often wondered what his specialty was._

_"Don't you?" he countered. _

Somehow he always kept things balanced between them. She wasn't sure whether he answered her questions with questions of his own because that's what she did or because he wanted to maintain a certain balance between them. She was fine with boundaries, but the more time she spent with him, the more curious she became. She _liked_ this marble man, this beautiful boy that seemed to gleam with the light of the sun even at night. She wanted to be his friend. She enjoyed hearing about his true friends, the ones that knew him as more than the Marble Man, and she found relief in telling him about her own fucked up life.

Rather than taunting her by knowing her name (which she had never actually _told_ him) while she did not know his, he mostly referred to her as "Slayer" or "Little Slayer." She couldn't decide whether the whole thing was creepy and whether or not she liked his nicknames, nor could she decide if, when he _did_ call her by her name, the shiver that went down her spine was because it sounded so foreign on his tongue or if it was because she liked hearing her name on his lips.

They had become friends, somehow. She wasn't sure what exactly had happened, but she truly _did_ appreciate that he had saved her life, and he hadn't left her alone since, for whatever reason, and she had grown to like his company.

He was driven. He talked a lot about his dreams of helping the people, saving them from these circumstances, finding a way to eradicate the violent covens and hopefully rehabilitate the rest.

Eponine was less in favor of rehabilitation, but her Marble Man insisted that not all covens were violent like Thénardier. He told her frequently that she was blinded by her hate for her parents and what they had become. When he said this, she told him to fuck off and mind his business, usually storming off and leaving him behind. And he usually let her go.

It irritated her to no end that he knew her so well – seemingly without even _trying_ – when she knew nothing about him. Was she that easy to read? He always seemed to guess her emotions – which she had spent so many years learning to hide – without any effort at all. He was always telling her about her potential, about how her circumstances could improve if she only tried a bit harder. He knew her name, he knew her story, _but she knew nothing about him_. Not even his name.

So one night, she asked him. They had been friends now for a few months. He had watched her fight, had even stepped in a few times when she got a little too close to death for his comfort (though she loved the rush that just escaping death gave her).

"What's your name? You know so much about me, but I know nothing about you."

He was silent for a long moment, and Eponine was fully expecting him to change the subject or stay quiet until she felt humiliated enough by her prying to change it herself, just as he always did. But tonight:

"I'm Enjolras," he told her quietly.

She froze in shock, unable to keep walking. He had actually _told_ her. Her Marble Man had a name, and he had finally given it to her.

After a tense moment, in which she stared at him with an unattractively open mouth and he stared back with trepidation and dark eyes, he stepped up to her. She couldn't read his face as he searched hers, slipping his hand into her own.

Eponine wasn't sure what he found in her face, but he must have been satisfied because he was suddenly turning away, tugging on her hand to pull her with him so they could resume their walk.

But she didn't move. Instead, she tested his name, whispering it into the slight wind. "Enjolras…."

He immediately turned when she said his name, cupping the side of her face with his hands and bringing his lips urgently to hers.

Eponine was waiting for him; her lips parted almost immediately against his, her arms wrapped around his neck, and she pressed herself into him just as he pulled her closer with his free arm.

Enjolras deepened the kiss, meeting the tongue that had only moments ago held his name so tenderly. She shivered as his hand traveled down her rocky spine to rest at the slight valley that had formed at the small of her back.

He kissed her passionately, and she rose to meet the challenge, just as she did with her slaying. His kisses moved from her lips to her jaw, to her neck, to her collarbone. His hand preceded the actions of his lips, tracing their route before he made it. Now, his fingertips traveled down her chest, lips following as he unzipped the jacket she was wearing to reveal her cleavage.

Her hands were entwined in his hair and _god_ she had forgotten how good this felt, and his fingertips and lips and tongue had just reached the top of her breasts when he cried out in pain, leaping away from her.

Eponine stared as a bit of smoke rose from his fingers, as though he had been on fire. He was staring at her with a torn, almost heartbroken, and pained expression.

She knew that she was staring back in horror. Her hand found the pendant buried in her cleavage – a silver cross. It was meant to protect her from her foe.

Anger like she had never before felt suddenly overtook her and she wanted nothing more than to _kill him where he stood_.

He just continued to stare.

"You're a _fucking vampire!"_ she screamed at him. She could hear the hurt and anger and fear in her voice. What had she done?

"Eponine–."

"No!" she snapped, cutting him off. The way he had _implored_ her with her name – without even needing to say anything else – had twisted her heart in her chest. "If you ever _fucking_ come near me again I will stake you through the heart, and cut your head off, and cause you a lot of fucking pain as I do it!"

Enjolras listened to her scream, holding his burned hand in the palm of his uninjured one. Staring at her with almost heartbroken eyes.

Then he was gone.

* * *

See you all for part 2!


	2. part ii

Ok guys, here's part ii!

I love this story, I really wanted to do an Eponine the Vampire Slayer, so it was a lot of fun to write!

Come find me on tumblr - eponnjolras - and drop me a prompt for the fic war (the purpose of which is to kill each other with feels)! Speaking of, I wrote this for the fic war, to fill a prompt from tumblr user poeticbibliophile ("are you afraid of the good you can do?" - you'll find that line in part 1!).

Hope this doesn't kill y'all with feels.

Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I really hope Hugo doesn't have any, like, divine knowledge that this exists. He's probably gonna haunt me soon...

* * *

Since she learned the truth about him, Enjolras had only seen Eponine once.

It was entirely by accident; he happened across her one night several weeks ago when she was on patrol. Her face when she saw him – well, she was less than thrilled. In fact, he thought the look she gave him would burn him where he stood (who needed the sun when Eponine's glare equaled its bright, burning rays?) as she screamed at him that she had opened up to him, had told him things, but he had been lying the whole time. She had pointed her crossbow at him, and something told him that if he pushed her, she wouldn't hesitate to shoot him.

So he had left, melting into the shadows as he so frequently did when he was near her, and had not seen her since.

Until now.

It had taken a few days for the news to get to him: just a few days past, a young hunter had been mauled by a werewolf, her pray. That young hunter was none other than Eponine's younger sister, Azelma.

And now, the broken young woman is sitting against her sister's headstone, her feet and hands leaving smears in the loose soil. She's staring off into the distance, oblivious to everything. Enjolras wonders what she's thinking about, what she's remembering.

She isn't safe here, that's for sure. Alone in a cemetery at night and completely unaware even to his presence a mere ten feet away is rendering her _extremely_ vulnerable to ambush.

He suddenly doesn't care if she tries to kill him.

Eponine doesn't notice him until he's standing over her, and when she finally does, all she asks is, "Are you finally here to kill me?" Her voice is raw, hollow, quiet.

Enjolras squats down in front of her. Her cheeks are streaked with tears, her eyes puffy and red, her jaw smeared with the dirt of her sister's grave.

"Where's Gavroche?" he asks gently.

"With Javert," is the hard response.

Relief sweeps through him. The child should not be alone right now. Still, he needs his sister.

"Eponine, you must be strong for him. You're all he has, don't abandon him now."

Eponine glares at him, a hint of the fire he had come to love in her eyes. "Don't tell me how to take care of my brother," she snaps. "I don't need advice from a lying bloodsucker."

The words sting him a bit, but he understands her anger. And he understands why she's lashing out.

"You're out in the open here, completely exposed," he informs her, ignoring her attack.

"I'm not a child."

"You need to be away from here for a while," he replies, much more gently.

Eponine shakes her head, but he reaches out for her anyway, lifting her dead weight to her feet. She crumples in on herself, though, unable to stand as she begins sobbing anew, so Enjolras swings her into his arms with ease. The look she gives him when he does it is almost comical; he can practically hear her asking if he just picks up crying women and carries them around regularly.

Enjolras takes her back to his apartment, holding her through the night as she cries over Azelma, until she finally drops off into a restless sleep.

He brushes hair out of her eyes, wondering when his intrigue and infatuation with her had turned to love.

* * *

Marius is Turned a few months after Azelma's death.

Enjolras thinks that Eponine will kill him, simply for being of the same species as the creature that almost sucked the boy dry, but her confusion outweighs her ferocity.

He can tell that vampires are no longer black and white for her. Whereas once she thought that they were all soulless, evil murderers, he has taught her that many can overcome that.

Enjolras belongs to Jean Valjean's Coven, he informs her the very night that Marius joins him in this purgatory to which he has been damned. Valjean's daughter, Cosette, reciprocated the human's feelings. When one of Eponine's parents' vampires attacked him, leaving him very nearly dead, Cosette appeared. The only way to save Marius, Enjolras explained, was to Turn him. Cosette made the choice, and was successful.

And although Eponine is angry that Marius has been taken from her (though she admits that he was never hers to keep), she can clearly no longer differentiate between her feelings towards the state of vampirism. On the one hand, Marius has been taken from her, forever to walk the night and belong to a different species and live an existence where even she cannot follow. On the other, he would have died were it not for Cosette Turning him; were it not for her, he would be yet another body in the ground, just like Azelma. This way, at least he gets to go on with some _semblance_ of a life.

Enjolras ensures her that Cosette and his Amis will teach the Changling to control his urges for blood, to live off blood from butchers' shops instead of fresher human blood. Eventually, he will recover from the Change, and become quite like his human self again.

Eponine is still angry, but she seems to consider his words. He is grateful that he is slowly changing her mind about vampires, that she is learning that they are not all evil, just as not all humans are good.

* * *

It's a struggle for her, coming to terms with her conflicting feelings towards vampires.

Some days, she acts like she _hates_ him, like she'll murder him on the spot if he says the wrong thing.

Other days, she treats him almost like he's a human friend. Even a human _boyfriend_ sometimes (she's been known to slip her hand into his when they're walking through the streets on her patrols or after he takes her for burgers – hers, medium rare, and his, so rare it's almost still alive).

Enjolras hopes that eventually, she will accept him completely, that she will want to meet the Amis and Cosette and Jean Valjean, (despite the Coven leader being the very vampire that Javert hates and wants to kill the most) that she, as a slayer and a woman of power, will be able to speak to the fact that not _all_ vampires are evil.

One day, he finds himself answering questions about his former life.

It starts with his name. No longer able to refuse her, to lie to her or keep the truth from her, he answers without hesitation. It actually surprises him. He's losing himself in her. "Gabriel. My name was Gabriel. Now I just go by my surname."

"Gabriel," she repeats, trying out the name. It's been so long since he's heard it that it sounds almost foreign to him. Still, he likes hearing it from her lips, and he finds himself wondering what it tastes like on her tongue.

"How old are you?" she asks curiously, jarring him out of his trance.

Enjolras just smirks at her. "I've lost count of all the years," he admits. "I died in 1832. So getting close to 200, I suppose."

"Tell me," Eponine demands.

He sighs, but does not refuse her. He no longer can, especially after hearing his name on her lips. "I'm French, actually."

"You have no accent, though!" she cries, rather surprised.

He just shrugs. "I've been around a long time. Long enough to both perfect my English and adopt the accent in this country."

"How did you die?"

Enjolras thought for a moment. It was so long ago, and the details were so fuzzy. But he had read history books that mentioned the event, read about his own insignificance. It still hurt him, knowing that he had set out to change the world but had just missed becoming historic.

"There was a revolution in the streets of Paris. I was the leader, actually. I was a law student at la Sorbonne. My friends and I – we all died. It all happened very quickly."

He was distracted for a moment by her, staring at him with rapt attention. Eponine was actually _fascinated_ by this, he realized. Perhaps she didn't hate him as much as he thought. Perhaps she was beginning to understand that he lived in this hell just as much as she, but that he didn't delight in it like so many others who crawled from the underworld.

"Go on," she urges.

Enjolras sighs again, but complies. "There was a woman at the barricade. I don't know who she was, but as we placed the bodies of each of my friends in our café, our little headquarters, she performed what she told us was a sort of 'last rites' for them. It wasn't until I clawed my way out of my grave that I learned what had happened. She Turned us all."

Eponine was staring at him, a mixture of horror and enthrallment on her face.

"How many people have you killed?" she asks. The question is soft, but firm. She does not fear him, he realizes, and he suddenly is uncomfortable with the feeling. He's been so used to the sense of power and superiority his existence provides that he's no longer familiar with what it's like to be around humans who _aren't_ frightened by him.

Once again, Eponine has managed to offset him.

He clenches his jaw, suddenly angry. "That's not of your business," he growls.

"But–."

_"Eponine!"_ he shouts, stopping short and turning on her, suddenly angrier than he's been in a long time.

She takes a step back in alarm, and he notices her hand go to her hip, where her stake hangs from her belt in a makeshift sheath next to Azelma's silver dagger. Her eyes are wide with surprise and, he sees, a hint of fear.

_There it is_. Satisfaction and self-loathing sweep through him simultaneously. He's delighted, in a predatory and instinctual sense, to see the fear in a potential victim's eyes. However, it's _Eponine_, the human woman he has come to love so much, and he never wants to see her look at him with _fear_. He doesn't want that from any human, but _especially_ not from her.

Still his anger is bristling dangerously beneath his skin. He clenches his hands into fists, his nails digging into his palms, and grinds his jaw as he glares at her.

The fear in her eyes fades, replaced by a flash of confusion, followed immediately by anger herself.

Eponine turns on her heal, then – _her!_ If anyone, it should be him storming off – muttering something that sounds a lot like "vampires" as she stalks away.

* * *

Enjolras doesn't know what happened.

One minute, he was in his apartment, deeply involved in _Norwegian Wood_, by Haruki Murakami, and then next minute Eponine was bursting through his door. She was hysterical, screaming and crying about Gavroche being missing.

He tried to calm her, tried to insist that the boy was likely with Javert or another slayer, or safe at a friend's house, but Eponine insisted that something was wrong.

"This has never happened before, he's never just up and disappeared. He _always _tells me where he'll be, and he knows better than to go anywhere alone at night without me or another slayer! I just _know_ something is wrong. I can feel it. Please, Gabriel, please help me," she cried.

His stomach twisted when she said his name. Without a second thought, he picked up his phone to call Combeferre.

Ten minutes later, he, Eponine, and all the Amis were fanned out across town, searching for the child.

Courfeyrac found the boy. He called Enjolras, out of breath, informing him that someone from either the Thénardier or Tholomyes Covens had attacked him.

Enjolras arrived moments later at the boy's side, and immediately knew what had happened. Little Gavroche was crumpled on the ground, lying without movement. His eyes were closed, and his blonde mop of hair matted with his blood. Two punctures on his neck indicated his fate.

He listened for a pulse, but if there was one, it was too faint for even his hypersensitive vampire ears to pick up. But there was little time; he brought his wrist to his mouth, breaking the skin with his sharp incisors, pinching the veins to drip blood into the child's mouth as Courfeyrac watched.

It was the only way.

Eponine came a few minutes after him, dropping gracelessly to her feet next to Gavroche's limp body as she sobbed at the sight of him.

She cradled her brother in her arms, screaming and crying. It took Enjolras a few moments to realize that she was _speaking_ – no, she was begging him to help.

"Turn him!" she cried. "Please, Turn him! He's my baby brother, I can't lose him."

"I tried, Eponine, it didn't work–."

_"Try again!"_

Enjolras sighed doubtfully, but did not argue. She watched with a semblance of hope lighting up her teary face as he repeated his actions, but the child did not respond. Her face slowly fell.

Enjolras reached out across Gavroche's lifeless body and gripped Eponine's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he whispered. His voice broke as he said it. "Whoever attacked him took too much blood. He's gone, Eponine. I can't do anything. He's gone."

She broke down.

He hadn't felt so helpless in at least a century.

* * *

Even though the funeral was during the day, he and Courfeyrac went. They covered themselves entirely for protection from the rays of the sun, and sat in the back of the room.

Enjolras found himself rather selfishly wondering if Eponine held the service in a funeral home rather than a church so that he could attend. Not that it mattered.

She was alone now. That was the only thing that mattered. She needed him.

If she noticed him there, she didn't acknowledge him. She just sat in the front, directly in front of the child's coffin, in between Javert and Musichetta. She did not cry, did not speak apart from giving the eulogy – throughout which her face remained steely and emotionless.

His slow-beating heart broke for her.

* * *

Enjolras went to Gavroche's fresh grave that night, looking for Eponine. He fully expected her to do what she did when Azelma died, to take her place against the headstone, but she is not there.

He searches for her around the town, even at her own home, until the sky begins to turn a purple rather than dark blue. Giving up, he heads home.

And that's where he finds here.

When he opens the door, he finds her sitting on his bed in the dark, waiting for him. He stays where he is as she stands, not sure whether she intends to break down in his arms or attack him for being the same type of demon that took her brother's life.

"I thought you were never coming back," she whispers indignantly.

Eponine takes a step forward, and he takes one back, still wary of her intentions.

She sighs. "Don't worry," she says. Her voice is strangely hollow. It worries him. "I'm not armed," she continues, opening her hands as if to prove it.

Enjolras shuts the door behind him, but does not move closer. He loves her, sure, but he does not trust her. Not when she's like this.

She sighs again, a little more exasperatedly this time, and kicks off her shoes and pulls off her white t-shirt and jeans.

He stares in shock, as Eponine stands before him in a black bra and panties, raising her arms again. "See?" she says, turning as if to display her lack of weapons. "I'm not armed."

She slinks over to him, where he's rooted to the floor, still too surprised to move. Her hand goes to his chest and she raises herself on her toes, whispering seductively in his ear, "Unless you want to do a cavity search."

Enjolras snorts at that, finally able to move again. He tries to back away from her, because this is _wrong_, she's not in her right mind tonight and she's in no state to be doing this, but his back hits the door.

Eponine smirks, and brushes her lips against his jaw. When she kisses down his neck, reaching the hollow of his collarbone, a low growl emits from his throat and he grabs her bare shoulders, straightening her, staring into those dark eyes he can barely even make out in this lighting. She's staring back expectantly, and when it becomes too much for him, when he crashes his lips to hers and kisses her hard and fast, she is ready. Her arms lace around his neck, her hands knot in his blonde curls, her body presses flush against his as she rolls her hips against his.

His clothes are off in a matter of seconds, followed by her underwear, and they fall back on his bed, moving quickly and passionately.

Suddenly he's wondering if this is the first time she's been with a vampire. Then he realizes that of course it is, that she hated his kind before she met him, and, especially after her brother's death, she still does. She wonders if she'll loathe herself tomorrow for her inability to control herself around him, or if she actually sees him as a friend, as possibly something more–.

Eponine cries out in pain. _Shit_. Enjolras had lost his concentration – not to mention he had largely lost control of his bodily reactions to her and their movements – and his incisors had extended without his noticing. He had cut her lip.

The smell of blood mixed with sex and with _her_ almost made him come apart right there, but the combination of horror, hate, and lust on her face stopped him.

"I'm sorry," he whispers hoarsely, his voice low. "Please–."

"Bite me," she whispers back, her voice just as rough. He thinks she's tell him to fuck off, and moves to get off her, exasperated with himself and just needing a release and needing _her_, but, to his surprise, she cries out in indignation and tries to hold him in place with her legs.

Her arms wrap around his neck again, and she gives him a mischievous look before turning her head away. Enjolras' brain sluggishly realizes that she's exposing her neck to him. She bucks her hips into his and, panting this time, again whispers, _"Bite me."_

_Oh._ Now he understands. It's a terrible idea, but he can hardly refuse her anything anymore.

He begins moving again, and Eponine groans. The groan turns into something very close to a scream as he first brushes her neck with his lips, then licks it, then finally, hesitantly breaks the skin.

Blood wells beneath his lips and it takes all his concentration not to lose control and suck her dry right then and there. This was a bad idea. He pulls away, staring at her, her blood smeared on his mouth, but her arms tighten around his neck as she tries to pull him back down.

"Don't stop," she whispers, and Enjolras is unsure if she means the sucking or the _fucking_, so he does both.

When he reattaches to her neck and begins to drink, trying as hard as he can to not lose himself in his instinct to _kill her_, she whimpers. But those whimpers slowly turn into moans of pleasure, and suddenly she's writhing beneath him, her legs wrapped tightly around his hips and her fingers knotted in his hair and pressing him further into her neck.

Enjolras barely remembers his own Change all those years ago, but the Changlings he's talked to over the years describe the Bite as being extremely euphoric. He wonders what it's like to have that ecstasy mixed with the bliss of sex. Then he realizes that it probably feels for Eponine how it feels for him – the bliss of sex mixed with the ecstasy of partaking in her blood, in being inside of her in so many more ways than just a sexual one.

Eponine is loud, almost screaming below him, and he feels her clench around him, coming apart beneath him. Moments later, the combination of her sweet, hot blood and her own moment coax his, and he comes hard, gulping her blood down and thinking that he has _never_ experienced anything like this before.

She is breathing hard and shallow underneath him, and he has stopped moving, but his instincts took over when he came and he no longer has control over his actions.

He is drinking deep, and for a moment she seems okay with it, totally fine with the fact that he is going to drink her dry and fucking _kill_ her, but then she's squirming beneath him, fighting him with what little strength she has left.

Enjolras doesn't even notice. He's too lost in the blood spilling from her neck and the intoxicating strength it gives him. It's been decades since he's drank from a human – he had almost forgotten how _delicious_ hot, fresh human blood was. He can't stop.

That is, until he's flying off the bed and into the dresser. The painful collision knocks some sense into him and he immediately retracts his teeth and stares at Eponine in horror. To his surprise, she does not seem angry or frightened or even ready to slay him – rather, she's staring at him with an odd, appraising expression he doesn't recognize.

He feels the blood – _her _blood – dripping down his chin. She slides out of the bed, and he notices that she's rather white and Enjolras wonders just how much blood he took from her. Then, feeling sick, he decides that he doesn't want to know.

Eponine is suddenly against him then, and he watches with confusion as she reaches out, tracing the contours of his face with fingertips that touch him as lightly as a summer breeze. Her eyes focus on his bloody mouth, and she swipes a finger across his bottom lip, collecting a sample of her blood. She stares into his eyes with a darkness that wasn't previously there – even during their surprisingly violent and _hot_ sex – and she slowly brings her finger to her mouth.

When she opens her lips, he understands, and grabs her hand before she can taste her blood. He doesn't know whether she's trying to understand or turn him on again, but it makes him sick. What he _did_ makes him sick.

Enjolras' hand is gripping her wrist tightly. "I could have killed you," he rasps, suddenly angry – with her, with himself, with his fucking _existence_, with this stupid hell he would forever walk in.

"I'm more resilient than I look," Eponine replies mildly.

He stands up, turning away from her and quickly dressing himself. He doesn't turn around as he says, "If I don't go right now, I might not be able to keep myself from killing you," he hears his self-loathing in his voice as he speaks, and wonders if she can hear it too. "I need to go get control over myself. I hope you're still here when I get back."

She is, and that surprises him, he is certain, more than anything else that has happened this entire night.

Eponine is pretending to be asleep when he returns – he can hear her pulse quicken when he walks in, despite the deep breathing she's feigning to try and trick him into thinking she's unconscious.

He climbs into bed with her, brushing his fingertips against the swollen wound he left on her neck. A feels her shiver against him, and, as much as he still hates himself for what he did to her, her reaction to him delights him.

"I know you're still awake."

Enjolras is expecting a cheeky reply on her part, perhaps even a kiss, but is surprised when she breaks down and begins sobbing into one of his pillows. He should have known that he could only distract her for so long before her world came crashing back down. Perhaps he shouldn't have left her here alone in order to gain control over himself again. He should have stayed and dealt with his urges himself, because she _needed_ him.

Too late. And anyway, he's here now. He pulls Eponine to him, kissing the knobby mountain where her spine joins her neck and shoulders, and she rolls over, crying into his chest. He holds her until she really _does_ fall asleep.

* * *

It's been a few weeks since their otherworldly sex, and Eponine has gone wild.

He has had to rescue her from more fights than he would like – she's taken to throwing herself blindly in while she's patrolling, relying on her anger and ferocity to carry her through rather than the technique and skill and planning that will keep her from being killed.

She's starting attacking more vampires at once than she can actually take, just for the rush being outnumbered gives her, and Enjolras has had to step in too many times. He has half a mind to go speak to Javert himself, though he doubts that would go over too well with _anyone_.

So it does not surprise him when, one night, Grantaire bursts into his room, shouting that Eponine had dropped herself into a nest inhabited by members of the Thénardier Coven.

Enjolras sighs exasperatedly, expecting this to be like one of her new-normal fights, but something in Grantaire's face suddenly frightens him, and minutes later he had arrived at the abandoned building.

Combeferre was inside, searching for Eponine with Bahorel and Courfeyrac. Joly and Bossuet had gone to find Musichetta for help, and Feuilly and Jehan were at another entrance to the building, trying to find a way in to help the slayer.

"She was fighting twelve vampires, the idiot," Combeferre murmurs, following voices – none of which were Eponine's.

A crash sounded downstairs, and moments later, Musichetta stormed in with the other Amis. She had broken down the back door.

Together, they silently crept to a room emitting loud music and the jeers and laughter and cries of his fellow, but oh-so-different, nightwalkers.

They attack. Enjolras isn't sure how long the fight lasts, but most of the Thénardier vampires flee. He desperately searches the room for her as his friends run through the house, looking for both Eponine and other victims.

Musichetta screams.

There is Eponine, lying motionless, crumpled in a corner violent, bloody gashes and punctures all over her body.

"You idiot, what the hell have you done?" he hisses at her, scooping her into his arms and holding her against him.

Enjolras hurriedly brings his wrist to his mouth, just as he did in this situation a few months back with Gavroche, and cuts himself, opening Eponine's mouth and allowing the blood to flow into her throat.

This is not the fate he wanted for her – she did not deserve to be so damned as he, not after everything she had done and everything she had been through. She did not deserve to become something she so _hated_.

But he would not lose her. He could not lose her. He was too in love with her. If – when – she woke, they could continue to slay, to hunt the Thénardier and Tholomyes Covens, the vampires around the world who were evil. They could still protect people.

But he couldn't go on existing without her. He couldn't let her go somewhere that he couldn't follow; in life, he would always be able to find her. Earth may have been Hell, but it was a place to walk among the living – the living humans and the living demons.

But he was damned; he would never be blessed enough to go where Azelma and Gavroche and – and where _she_ went in death. They went somewhere beautiful, someplace that a cursed and damned creature of hell and darkness could never follow. And it was selfish, to try to deny her that peace, that weightless existence with her family; by doing this to her, by Changing her, he would deny that fate to her forever.

He was crying, he suddenly realized, tears of blood – it had been so many years since anything had prompted him to cry that he had forgotten that vampire tears were not the same liquid as human ones.

"Come on you idiot slayer, I _need_ you to wake up!" he snaps at her limp body.

He isn't sure how long he sat there cradling her. He doesn't know who is there with him, except when he hears Musichetta whisper that she thinks it's too late. He just stares at her closed eyes until the night melds with early morning and the Amis – if they were even still there – depart before the sun rises.

Enjolras has almost given up hope, crying into her chest and hair, kissing her temple and running his hands over the scar he had left on her neck all those weeks ago.

_"Please,"_ he begs her.

But there is nothing. She is gone.

He sets her on the floor, knowing that he has to leave or be confined there with her corpse until the sun sets. So he strokes her bloodied head tenderly, kisses her forehead, and turns to go.

_Gabriel…._

He has just reached the doorway when he hears the faintest pump of a heart accompanied by what he imagined might be the name only she knows. He turns slowly, and sees her body shudder once. His own slow heartbeat picks up a little bit – not that it's anything compared to even a slow human heartbeat, but blood does pump through his body – and he rushes back to her side.

The wounds have already begun to heal a bit, and he can sense the change in her as the virus he carries takes hold in her.

Those brown and gold eyes flutter open suddenly, startling him a bit, and snap to his blue ones.

She grins weakly, showing off new, sharp incisors, and whispers his name again.

_"Gabriel…."_

Enjolras strokes her forehead, smiling at her as he gathers her slowly healing body in his arms. "Eponine," he whispers back, kissing her.

When he pulls away, she murmurs, "Thank you," against his lips.

"For what?" he asks, a little surprised.

She rolls her eyes at him in a way that is so _human_, and he's suddenly sure that Eponine beat the Change, that her newfound vampirism hasn't even changed her a little bit. "For finally taking the hint." She runs her tongue over her new teeth.

_She wanted this_, he realizes. She _wanted_ him to Turn her. _That's_ why she had gone on all these damn suicidal missions in the weeks since Gavroche's death, because she wanted him to Turn her. She could have allowed herself to die, could have even taken her own life, but she wanted to Change, wanted _him_ to Turn her.

She wanted _him. _For eternity.

Enjolras smiles at her, and she returns it as she sits up to kiss him again.

Eternity, he can do.

And now, Eponine can too.

_Fin._

* * *

Thanks everyone!

Until next time!


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